


two steps back

by a_good_soldier



Series: HANDLING EXPRESSIONS OF WINCHESTER EMOTION: A FIELD GUIDE (or: supernatural s12 codas) [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, Episode: s12e14 The Raid, Gen, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Panic Attacks, Self-Destruction, Self-Hatred, Vomiting, demon dean (mentioned)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2017-03-03
Packaged: 2018-09-28 03:10:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10067876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_good_soldier/pseuds/a_good_soldier
Summary: Dean and Ketch hook up, and it goes... well, it goes. Actually, it goes pretty bad, after the fact.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> yeesh, i don't know what in tarnation this even is. take a gander at the tags, i think i caught everything that might need a warning. the dubious consent is dean/ketch, just because of dean's headspace and weird feelings about the whole situation (both during and after). implied rape/non-con refers to some oblique references to sam and toni. also a homophobic slur is used (by dean, in reference to himself).
> 
> if you just want skeevy porn, read chapter 1, and if you just want sam and dean having a Serious Family Meltdown™ with a good healthy dose of dean angst, read chapter 2! and if you want both of those things because you contain multitudes, you can read both chapters.

In an almost disappointingly predictable turn of events, it happens like all of Dean’s other queer hookups.

Dean’s in the bathroom of the Brits’ bunker, and the only other people in the whole damn complex are either Ketch or dead. He’s not surprised when the door opens and he catches sight of unreasonably tight leather out of the corner of his eye.

“Well, Dean,” Ketch says from the doorway, not even bothering with the pretense of taking a piss or washing his hands. “What did you think?”

Dean’s mouth twitches as he wipes his hands. “Kinda freaked,” he admits. He figures he might as well give Ketch something honest, since the rest of the night’s not looking too big on the heart-to-hearts.

Dean leans against the nearest wall, and waits for Ketch to catch on. Doesn’t take long. Ketch is stalking towards him before Dean even has to start on the bedroom eyes. Good, too, seeing as it’s been near on two decades since he last used them and he’s a little out of practice.

Ketch’s hands are on his waist and his mouth is on his jaw without a word, and the silence is jarring. Dean’s looking at the far end of the ceiling while his dick hardens. He loves kissing — loves the feel of it when his lips get oversensitive, the hot air of someone else’s breath — but that doesn’t seem in the cards right now, which is. Fine.

Dean pushes off Ketch’s hands, pulls at Ketch’s fucking jacket, unbuckling it as he goes down, pushing it off his shoulders. The man’s got a T-shirt underneath which he pulls over his head, revealing hard nipples and hard muscles and fewer scars than Dean expected, as Dean goes to his knees.

“You—” Ketch starts, sudden in the tile-echo silence, before Dean tugs at the zipper of his pants. Why in God’s name Ketch feels the need to wear leather fucking pants too, Dean will never know, but he pulls them down a couple inches so he can mouth at his briefs. Christ, Dean wants that in his mouth yesterday.

“Wait,” Ketch pants, “stop.” What the fuck? Dean leans back, and feels— there’s something off about looking up at a man when you’re about to suck his dick. At least, Dean thinks so. “You want this?”

Dean’s not sure whether Ketch wants to hear him beg for it or is actually asking him, so he aims for an answer somewhere in the middle. “I want you to fuck my mouth,” he says, overly-loud in the quiet. Ketch isn’t even breathing hard.

But Ketch smiles, and that smile— Dean is suddenly unsure about this, not sure that this is where he wants to be. But he agreed, so he opens his mouth obligingly when Ketch presses forward. “All right, then,” Ketch breathes, putting his hand on the back of Dean’s head. Dean breathes in through his nose, lets him pull his mouth onto his dick, fuck, it’s— Ketch is heavy on his tongue and, after that initial slide home, all blunt pressure at the back of his throat, filling him up, and Dean fucking  _ loves _ it.

“Just like that,” Ketch croons, and Dean closes his eyes because apparently being told he’s doing something right sends a shiver down his spine.  _ “Yes,” _ he hisses, and Dean makes an involuntary grunt, just this little muffled noise at the back of his throat that makes Ketch press further, until he’s basically grinding into Dean’s face.

Dean doesn’t have a lot of room to maneuver here, but he tries sweeping his tongue around the base of Ketch’s dick, sucking him in and hollowing his cheeks, feeling— feeling fucking  _ grateful _ for the grip in his hair pulling him off balance. He’s so fucked up. Dean lets his mind wander, lets himself think about nothing except for Ketch’s dick sliding into him, and Ketch fucks his face harder, huffing out these little breaths every time that don’t do anything for Dean except remind him that he’s here, getting his face fucked by some creep who he doesn’t even like.

Eventually Dean has to pull back for air because he’s not seventeen anymore, and Ketch leaves his dick on Dean’s tongue, looking at him while Dean’s gaze darts to his face and away. He keeps his mouth open, though, lets Ketch look his fill. After a breath — two breaths — Dean starts again, licking around the head and keeping his mouth wide open, but before he can get that cock back in his mouth, Ketch rasps, “Wait.”

“What?” Dean sounds fucked out, his throat  _ feels _ fucked out, and he suddenly remembers that in two minutes he has to be in a car with his brother and mom, who are waiting for him outside. Fuck.

“Let me—” and Ketch doesn’t finish his sentence, just starts jacking himself off, and Dean— Dean fucking lets it happen, because he’s come this far. He breathes, heavily, and Ketch’s cock jerks, and come pools on Dean’s tongue, on his lips, runs down his chin. “Beautiful,” Ketch breathes once he’s done, and Dean is fucking freaked, right now, because Ketch has the same expression on his face that he did when he was punching out that vamp.

“Uh—” but before Dean can stand up, lean back, Ketch kneels and is  _ on  _ him, fucking straddling him, and pushing Dean back against the wall. He’s so hard, and so fucked up, and so terrified, and Ketch is—

Ketch is tugging at his jeans, pulling out his dick, which aches from having been untouched this whole goddamn time. “Fuck,” Dean breathes, before Ketch pushes him further, has an arm dangerously close to his open, vulnerable throat.

“You didn’t like it when I punched that girl,” Ketch says, low, seductive, like he’s fucking dirty talking right now.

“I—” How is that  _ relevant, _ Dean wants to ask, but everything feels too-bright and physical and breathless.

“Why not?” But before Dean can answer, Ketch comes in ( _ for the kill, _ his mind adds), puts his mouth right under Dean’s ear, keeps jacking him so tight it almost hurts. “You’re just like me. You like it.” Then he thumbs under Dean’s jaw, almost— almost like his hand is splayed out over his neck. Almost like he could choke him, if he just squeezed a little tighter. It makes Dean so fucking hard. “You’re  _ scared _ of how much you like it.” He twists his wrist around the head, and Dean feels him smile against his throat. “You’re scared of how much you like to make people  _ hurt.” _

And that’s it, that’s all she wrote, Dean is— Dean is so fucked up, and Dean is coming so fucking hard, jerking and then trembling in his dirtied up jeans. There’s come on his undershirt and his toes curl as his hips twitch. He still has all his clothes on, Jesus Christ.

Ketch leaves him stranded, pulls back and stands up and puts his shirt back on like nothing’s happened, while Dean’s wrecked and gasping on the floor. Ketch gives him that smile — the one that terrifies Dean, because he’s seen it in the mirror — and leaves him with, “Tell Mary I say hello.”

Well, then. What the  _ fuck. _


	2. Chapter 2

Apparently Mom already left in the car Sam took, got tired of waiting for him. Sam gives him a knowing smile as Dean ambles over, shameless. Or, at least, trying to exude shamelessness. Kinda hard when there’s ten layers of wrong to this whole thing.

Sam shakes his head as Dean gets closer. “Really, dude?” Dean’s not even sure what it is — he washed his face in cold water, made sure his fly was zipped, took a whole two minutes to settle down and get his breathing down. He gives Sam a look — his patented “I have no idea what kids these days think about,” one which was molded to perfection during Sam’s preteen years — and Sam nods at his shirt.

His shirt with a visible come stain. Jesus Christ.

“Fuck,” Dean says, suddenly shaky. This is more than a hookup in a bar, this is— firstly, it’s a dude, secondly, a British Men of Letters dude who  _ enjoys fucking torturing, _ and thirdly Dean doesn’t want to live in a world where his brother has seen his own fucking come on his shirt. “Fuck, I gotta—” it’s stupid, he knows it’s so stupid, but he pulls off his button down and his undershirt right there, tosses the stained shirt in the backseat and hastily buttons the other one back up.

“Dude,” Sam is saying, “dude, it’s fine—”

“Whatever,” Dean says, which doesn’t even make sense as a response. “Get in the car.”

Sam looks worried now, which is definitely, definitely worse than the ‘I know you hooked up in the bathroom and I’m gonna make fun of you for it’ look. Dean slams the driver’s door shut and gets the hell outta Dodge.

“You okay?” Sam asks, which on the one hand is fair enough after Dean’s freakout, but on the other  _ not something Dean wants to hear right now. _

“We’re not talking about this, Sammy.” The bunker —  _ their _ bunker — is close by anyway, a ten minute drive. Sam will be out of his hair soon enough.

“You just—” Sam swallows, and looks away. “I’m not— just tell me it was, uh. Consensual.”

“What the fuck?” Dean looks over at Sam, who looks pale and sick and a hell of a lot of other not-good things. “Yeah, it was, chill.”

Sam breathes out. “‘Kay.”

Dean glances over at Sam, who is determinedly avoiding eye contact. He debates bringing it up, but they’ve got four minutes of road left until they hit the bunker, so now’s the time. “You wanna tell me why you asked?”

Sam looks at him like he’s grown a second head. “You looked freaked, there’s fucking dried jizz on your shirt, and Ketch walked out three minutes before you looking like a happy customer.” They both wince at that, and Sam backtracks. “Sorry, I didn’t mean— anyway. Just wanted to check.”

In about a minute they’ll end up at the bunker driveway. “Yeah, well,” Dean says, “sometimes you just get freaked because your little brother sees your fucking dried jizz on your shirt.”

Sam groans. “I did  _ not _ want to know it was yours.”

“I—” Damn it. “Shit. Sorry, dude.”

Sam rolls his eyes, and Dean figures they’re square. He pulls up into the garage and sees the other car there. At least Mom is home and not running some other errand for the fucking Brits.

The two of them get out of the car, same as they have since they were teens, and Sam stops with a light tap on Baby’s roof. Dean turns to him. “You sure you’re not freaked because…” Sam looks at him meaningfully, and Dean shrugs. Sam sighs. “Because it’s a dude?”

Because it’s a dude, because he was on his knees, because he got off on being told that he’s a fucking monster. But Sam doesn’t need to know that Dean has issues on issues on issues about this shit. “Not relevant,” he says shortly, and walks up to the inside door as Sam follows.

“‘Kay,” Sam snorts, skeptical, but drops the issue. Mom’s reading in the bunker library, and Dean smiles at her, tells them both he’ll make dinner and if they want some then someone’s gotta commit to doing the dishes, because like hell he is.

As he’s putting the chicken in the oven, Sam comes in with— shit. With a near-empty bottle of scotch. “What the hell is this?”

Dean swallows. Closes the oven door. “Ketch brought it,” he says quietly. “As a gift.”

“You—” Sam slams the bottle on the table so hard it’s a wonder the thing doesn’t shatter. “God  _ damn _ it, Dean!”

“Look,” Dean says, “it was just a drink—”

“You drank a whole goddamn  _ bottle—” _

“Ketch had some too, okay, it’s not like—”

“Shut up.” Dean watches nervously as Sam keeps his hand wrapped around the bottle’s neck. “Dean, just shut up.”

Dean sees Mary walk up to the threshold, probably concerned about all the noise, but Sam doesn’t notice Dean’s attempts to let him know. “You’re turning into Dad, Dean,” Sam says, and Dean doesn’t want Mary to hear this. “All you do is drink and kill and fuck and you’re goddamn lucky—” He shuts up.

Dean wants to know what Sam was going to say. “What, Sam?”

“No.” Sam walks over to the sink, and pours out the last remnants of Ketch’s obscenely expensive liquor. He still hasn’t noticed Mom. “I’m not going to say it—”

“What is it, Sam? What am I so goddamn lucky about?”

Sam closes his eyes. “I hate myself for thinking it and I’m not gonna fucking tell you. So just make your goddamn dinner and drink until your liver shrivels up inside you and pine away after Cas while you fuck dudes who don’t give a  _ shit _ about you, okay?” Oh fuck Mary’s right there oh fuck oh fuck oh  _ fuck— _ “I had my fucking guts torn out, I had— Dean, that fucking  _ look _ on her face when she  _ made _ me— and you had sex with Ketch while I was  _ right fucking there—” _ Sam breathes in. Dean is in shock. This is what shock is, right now. “I can’t deal with this.”

“Sam?” Sam whips around at Mary’s soft voice, and looks back at Dean. There’s an apology in his eyes, but it’s too goddamn late. “I… I don’t…”

Dean is hyperventilating. That’s what it feels like. Or he’s having a fucking heart attack, gonna keel over at thirty-seven, a walking anti-drinking anti-bacon PSA, and he’s on the ground. Sam kneels down. “Fuck, Dean,” he says, ignoring Mary entirely, “fuck, I’m sorry—”

“Not your fault,” Dean gasps out, while he’s shaking and trying not to fucking cry in front of whatever remains of his family. If Cas shows up right now he’ll fucking scream. Fuck.  _ Fuck. _

“It’s okay,” Sam says, soothing nonsense, “it’s okay, Dean, it’s okay. Just breathe. In, out, in—”

Dean tries to copy his breaths. He’s gonna die. He’s gonna die like this, splayed out on the floor in front of a goddamn rotisserie chicken, while his mom watches in disappointment at the fucking faggot kid she never even wanted. “I’m gonna— I’m gonna—”

Sam seems to get what he’s saying, and pushes a fucking tupperware in front of him as he retches into it, nothing but clear bile leaking out of his mouth. It feels— it feels like fucking Ketch’s come running down his face, the taste of it still in his mouth, and Dean gags again, hacks up more bile and scotch and then whatever he managed to feed himself for breakfast. He’s pathetic.

At least his breathing is a little better after throwing up, which maybe isn’t a good thing, since now Dean’s coherent enough to realize what a mess he’s made of pretty much everything that’s left in his life. “You’re okay,” Sam murmurs.

“Oh God.” Dean looks at the tupperware of bile and mostly-digested food chunks and almost wants to throw up again. “Sam, can you—”

“Yeah, ‘course,” Sam says, and stands up to put the tupperware in the sink. The faucet runs for a bit, and Dean watches Sam’s legs as he pours the vomit down the drain, scrubs at the tupperware, and then leaves it in the sink. Maybe they’ll toss it out. Dean’s not putting any food in it ever again, that’s for sure.

“Dean?” Mary comes over. Oh fuck. Dean closes his eyes as Mary squats in front of him. “Hey, Dean, look at me.”

Dean looks at her, because even if she’s making stupid fucking decisions, right now the person making the stupidest ones is him. “Hey,” he rasps. It’s a stupid thing to say, but, well. See: decisions, subsection Dean Winchester.

Mary smiles stiffly, and looks down at the ground. “So, uh. Sam said… Sam said a lot of stuff.”

“Can we not do this now?” Dean begs. He’s not fucking ashamed of it. He’s ashamed of his meltdown, and what he did with Ketch, and the fact that even though he likes women he’ll never shake this fucking homo shit, but he’s not ashamed of asking for a break. No one wants to talk to Dean Winchester on a post-panic attack low. “Just— tomorrow, or something.”

Mary nods. “Okay. That’s fair. Do you— do you need anything? Anything from me?”

_ I kinda need you to tell me you don’t think I’m a piece of shit, _ Dean thinks, but like hell is he gonna say that. He shakes his head. “Nah, I think Sam’s got me covered.”

“Okay.” Mary stands up, and like he’s been waiting for his cue, Sam plops down on the floor, looking for all his unnatural height like a goddamn twelve year old. “Sam, can I talk to you for a sec?”

“Not right now, Mom,” Sam says, voice hard, eyes harder. Dean feels both bad and pathetically grateful. “Maybe later.”

Mary breathes in. “Okay. I’ll—” she shakes her head. “Let me know if you need me.” She leaves, and he hates himself for it, but Dean feels relief.

“So,” Sam says. He doesn’t say anything else.

Dean catches his breath. “What am I lucky about?” He lost most of the conversation before his epic panic attack of doom, but he remembers tugging on that string, and he remembers that Sam wouldn’t budge.

“Dean, no—”

“Come on, man.” Dean tried for a smile. “You cleaned up my vomit, I’m pretty sure you’re allowed a hit below the belt.”

Sam huffed out a reluctant laugh. “Don’t think you’re in any shape to take one right now.”

Dean shrugged. “Now’s the only time I’m not gonna go chug down a couple shots of tequila right afterwards, so you’d better take your chance, kiddo.”

Sam frowns at that, as though he wasn’t the one laying out Dean’s barely-functioning alcoholism for their mom to hear. “I—” he breathes out. “I just— I was gonna say— wait. I just wanna say first that I don’t think—”

“Goddamn it, Sam, the anticipation’s killing me more than your goddamn mean tweet is going to.”

“Did you just reference—”

_ “Sam.” _ Dean felt his frustration mounting. “Can you just—”

“I was gonna say you were lucky Lisa and Ben weren’t around anymore.” Sam closes his eyes after he blurts it out, and Dean sits there in stunned, silent shock. “I’m sorry, Dean,” Sam mutters, opening his eyes. “I— I thought it, but I don’t think it’s true. And there’s nothing— there’s nothing that would excuse me bringing Lisa and Ben into this. I’m sorry.”

“I might change my mind about that tequila.” Sam’s head snaps up, and Dean gives him a weak grin. “Kidding, kidding.” Dean pauses. “If you think I haven’t told myself the same thing and worse every day, you’re fucking delusional.”

“You don’t deserve it.” Sam looks him in the eye. “I’m serious. We— we fuck up, and yeah, I think they’re safer away from us, but that’s not on you. It’s not your fault our lives are like this.”

“I’m turning into him,” Dean says after a while. “You weren’t wrong. I’m drinking, I’m fighting—”

“Dean—”

“I attacked you with a hammer and you didn’t leave. How fucked up is that? You didn’t even leave.”

“You were a demon, Dean, the rules are different.”

“I’m  _ still _ a demon!” Dean stands up, and Sam scrambles up to meet him. “Look at me, man! You think—”

He cuts himself off, and Sam looks at him with fucking pity, which is a lot to fucking handle. Dean stands there, in empty, stupid silence, while Sam reaches for something to say.

“He told me I liked— hurting people,” Dean gets out, stilted and nervous. “It freaked me out.”

Sam seems to collapse inward, leaning against the counter. “Jesus.” He breathes out. “It’s not true.”

“It is.” Dean swallows. “It— I like. I like it.” He hangs his head. “That’s the part that freaked me out. The fact that he was right.”

“Of course you like it,” Sam says, which is surprising. “You don’t make it this far in a hunter’s life if you don’t like it at least a little bit. We’re fucked. We like decapitating vamps and cutting up werewolves. It’s literally in our blood.”

That’s a lot to deal with, right now, when Dean’s still shaky on his feet and covered in dried sweat, so he stands there and sways until he lists too far to one side and Sam has to catch him. “Shit,” he mumbles, the adrenaline crash catching up to him. “I gotta—”

“Yeah, get some rest,” Sam says, sending him off to bed with a strange look that Dean can’t decipher. Disappointment? Unfulfillment? Whatever it is, Dean leaves it for tomorrow, and pushes himself through a shower. It doesn’t feel cleansing or rebirthing like it normally does; it just feels tiring and dirty, like he’s got so much filth on him that he’ll never be clean.

He collapses onto his bed, and dreams about hulking figures in the shadows, all menacing and powerful. The worst part is, they’re all afraid of him.


End file.
